Timing
by monkey-in-hell
Summary: Post E8 A2A drabble/story


A/N Who can't wait for series two? Anyway, bit longer this time (I was trying to write something else but this came out instead and wouldn't go away) but I'm not entirely happy with it.

Timing

She ran her forefinger experimentally along the rim of the wine glass, the blunt edge only making an impression upon the pad of her finger if she pressed hard enough. Just as it should. She picked up the glass, its contents swirling lazily around with the simple flick of her wrist. As it should. She brought the glass to her lips, the scent of the liquid rising to her nostrils, ablaze with familiarity. She sipped the contents slowly, the red liquid washing over her tongue and adding to the warm feeling inside that only alcohol could bring. Underneath her the seat, recently vacated by one Gene Hunt, still retained his warmth.

It was all so real. No matter how hard she tried to persuade herself otherwise. And she had been trying so very hard these last few hours.

Watching her parents die, seeing that car explode and take with it all that she had treasured in the world, was as painful as it had been the first time around. Back then she had been young, an innocent girl who was only subconsciously aware of how her parents behaved when she wasn't there. A little girl who had adored her father and who had felt she never quite stood up to her mother's scrutiny. And now, knowing that her mother _had_ loved her and that her father had been trying to destroy her, the pain was just as raw, as if the wound had never really healed at all. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe the circumstances of her parents' deaths, never revealed directly to her, had allowed the wound to fester all these years, just waiting for the appropriate time to burst - like today. Her mind had carefully constructed this world, recreated the months leading up to the most important day of her childhood, giving her the time to gradually put together the pieces of the puzzle that she had unknowingly held on to for more than two decades. Yes, that must be it - to have found out the truth suddenly, in a few swift minutes, would have left a larger hole in her heart than the one that already resided there.

She sipped at her drink again, finding that it helped to take the edge off those feelings but unwilling to admit how much of a crutch the bottle had become since she'd 'arrived' in this world. But just as the pain had eased, something else had taken over. The puzzle may have been solved, the secrets of her past now much clearer; she was the daughter of a murderer and his victim (maybe that explained her messed up psyche?). But it didn't explain why she was still here, still trapped in 1981. After all she'd gone through it hadn't been enough to get home. She'd begun to wonder if it ever _had_ been her way home. She had promised Molly, and herself, that she wouldn't give up, that she would keep on fighting but what was she going to do? What puzzles were left to solve?

Ahead, she could see Luigi at the bar, clearing up for the night and studiously ignoring the rabble - also known as her colleagues (minus Chris and Shaz who had left earlier that night) - loitering at the exit, with Gene Hunt, in charge as always, boisterously attempting to conduct some kind of orchestrated departure. She could hear each individual voice, put a name to each now familiar baritone, and even recite a few facts about each person, but it was Gene's voice that boomed over everyone else, it was his voice she always heard. And, as her colleagues finally began to leave, that thought stayed with her.

"You're looking a bit livelier, Bolly. And just as the party's winding down."

Striding towards her with all the confidence of someone who knew their place in this world was Gene Hunt. He was - what had she said to him the other night? Boorish. Insensitive. She'd called him worse than that over the course of the last few months too; he was decidedly un-PC and proud of it. He wasn't above using the threat of a beating to get a confession out of a suspect, of terrifying witnesses, of using any means possible to get the job done and damn the consequences. And yet, as today had demonstrated once again, he could be so very different. Seeing him with her younger self had set off all kinds of feelings within her. And they were all so confusing. Discarding her growing attraction towards him, she was left with the possibility that it had been Gene Hunt who had held her hand all those years ago, that it had been he who had made her feel safe and not Evan. But that couldn't be true because Gene Hunt was a figment of her imagination, one she had stolen from someone else at that. Yet her mind had held so many repressed memories from that day - this day - that the image of Gene shielding her younger self remained in her head and she was finding it increasingly difficult to distinguish fact from fiction. "Must be the wine," she offered, both in answer to his question and to her current state of mind.

She watched him take the seat across from her - the one she had been sat at earlier - and pick up her glass of wine. "Can't be this stuff," he said, taking a swig, "You could embalm someone with this."

Alex smiled at him, unable to stop herself. What had he said all those hours ago? This life was all about timing? The wisdom of the Gene Genie knew no bounds. She smiled further, mostly because of the wine, but also at the thought that, as this was really all in her head, _she _was in fact the Gene Genie. The 'real' Gene smiled briefly at her, no doubt thinking her amusement was all his doing. She leant across the table, forearms supporting her. If she asked him straight out about the veracity of that thought, what would he say? She had put the idea to him earlier, back at the station, albeit with an accusatory tone, and she hadn't exactly received a straight answer. She never got a straight answer though, not from any of them. She could drop comments about the future into any conversation and get no response, other than the recipients marking her off as a loony. Mrs Fruitcake, Gene had called her. Was her mind just conveniently papering over the holes? If she pushed for an answer, would this world that she'd created come tumbling down on top of her? Or would she find her way home?

"Tell me, Gene," she asked firmly, "Is any of this real?" She didn't expect an answer, not really; she didn't expect Gene to suddenly become self aware and demand to know why she'd sent Scarman in to try and pull down his empire. But it would be nice.

The stoney facade that he often wore was firmly back in place as he carefully sat forward, mirroring her stance. "Your left hook felt real to me, Bolls. And when your hangover kicks in tomorrow you won't feel like asking so many stupid questions."

She frowned to herself, dropping her head in frustration. The top of the table stared back at her blankly and, taking a deep fortifying breath, she slowly drew her eyes back up to find him staring at her with a mixture of concern, annoyance, disappointment, and something else that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Something alluring.

She leaned further forward, studying him closely, looking for some kind of sign. He, of course, stared right back at her, the only thing his demeanour gave away was the certainty that he was right. Which always made her want to fight back because where did her subconscious get off by putting him in her fantasy and then making him so damn annoying? "I'm not drunk," she replied, taking extra care to pronounce each and every syllable. And she wasn't drunk, not really, just at that stage where sobriety and alcohol fuelled abandonment fought for control. And right then she wasn't sure which one was going to win.

Gene nodded once, "Of course you're not. You always make this much sense."

The flicker of amusement in his features, a welcome break from his usual look, drew her attention - and her upper body - closer to him. Over the months she'd been trapped here she had seen glimpses of something else, of someone else, under the gruff exterior. He hid everything away, kept up the 'hard man' routine, kept everyone at a distance but if one dared to look closer, could get past the outer wall, they would be surprised. She had been, especially by his invitation to dinner; both that he had asked her and the way he had asked - she'd never seen him so unsure of himself, so much so that it had taken a moment for her to get her answer out.

It was the layers that made him so attractive, she decided there and then, and those eyes. Gene was not by any means a 'pretty boy', ruggedly handsome maybe and personality wise, well he left a lot to be desired. But those clear blue eyes, which darkened when they fought but deepened on when he opened up to her, and the long lashes that accompanied them, softened his features, just as those glimpses of the 'gentler' Gene Hunt softened the hard exterior. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the day's events, maybe it was some kind of epiphany, but she suddenly decided Gene Hunt warranted further investigation. Maybe he was the puzzle she needed to solve.

"What?"

She blinked quickly, his voice reminding her that she was staring wordlessly at him. She had spent months working for him as his DI, had spent endless hours drinking with him as colleagues, maybe the time was right to try something else. She wasn't sure what - if anything - she would gain by this but she had nothing to lose either. Until, or unless, there was another avenue home to explore he was all she had. "You know, maybe we should go upstairs and 'watch that film'?" she proposed, smiling at him as she used air quotations, completely forgetting that he wasn't a fan of them.

"You're wiggling your bloody fingers again."

"And you're avoiding answering," she batted back quickly, curious as to why he was responding that way; he had been all for it the previous night. A little voice whispered in her ear that she had turned him down then and maybe pride, or stubbornness because he had plenty of both, was making him return the favour.

"Don't you have some packing to do?"

She sighed softly at that, at her failure to save her parents and therefore her failure to get home. But it wasn't over until she gave up and she was never going to do that. "Looks like I'll be sticking around for longer than I expected."

Gene leant back in his chair and scrutinised her as closely as she had him. She wondered if he could read her thoughts or if, as a construct of her fantasy (and her obvious lack of control over it), he always knew what she was thinking anyway and was now merely toying with her. Either way, she found herself waiting nervously for him to speak.

"Do you even like cowboy films, Bolls?" he asked eventually.

"Just lately," she said softly, "I've got this thing for cowboys." When the faintest trace of a smile graced his lips, she found herself smiling too.


End file.
